and more formulations.
    and more disease.
    and more life.
    and more and more words. sing it. shout it. scream it.
    and remain forever silent and gazing out at the wonder of it all.
    oh boy.
    circles around and within circles. web. we weave. ourselves. repeating. yet with each repetition is variation. nothing is ever the same no matter how much the same it is.
    good and evil. ha! if they don't make one laugh then what good are they? none, baby - they are e-v-i-l.
    get it?
    remember - it's a joke. as much as one may feel like wanting to waste a number of people - maybe even the whole planet - remember it's just a joke.
    that's all.
    if one wants to take it seriously then that's one's own problem then, isn't it?
    problems. yeah - let's make up a bunch of problems for one another and create situations that are nothing but problems and based on problems. problems without solutions because then we wouldn't know what to do with ourselves without a bunch of problems to deal with.
    we're sitting on the top of it. we are now the gods we had imagined all the while and we're still not fucking happy with anything.
    but how happy were the gods?
    no - we're gonna follow this out to the bitter end because that's how the script is written and the script is the law and the word of god we must tremble and humble ourselves before and beneath.
    ain't it time we took hold of that rod and staff god's been beating us with all this time and maybe get in a few licks of our own back? tell it, hey! back the fuck off!
    or something like that except that there ain't no god to do that to, is there? well, if there isn't then we could always pretend.
    or not. he doesn't know. he doesn't care. it could be fun. so what?
    such a joy.
    a box. a box in a box in a box. bits. bits of boxes.
    zero to one.
    plasma. one to zero.
    dogless.
    and whatever that all means. and he supposes he could put it on that it means something - which of course it does - and zzz whatnot about much ado and declare himself to be this poet or something of the like and all some such dada and dada, amen and amen. thanks, but no thanks.
    so that's pretty much that.
 
    12/28
    and further formulations. and further disease. and further life. and further words.
    and he sits back. he can only sit back. he cannot be any part of this with them. this is their show. he leaves them to their own. we can enter a fantasy about it. that's all. he has his and they have theirs. this is no place to be.
    no place.
    utopia.
 
    and he can change anything about this that he might want to. he doesn't want to. it wouldn't change anything. he is not looking for himself in this. he has already found himself as a fictionalized character of himself. he is looking for another. he sees glimpses now and then of someone else. but these usually turn out to be his own reflection or his own shadow.
    how does he get this out to another and get anything back from them? do they exist?
    he is confused. he doesn't know how to work this. he doesn't know how it works. he doesn't know how anything works.
    yes - he can survive. he could survive better than he is now. though it would take too much compromise. it wouldn't mean that he understood any better how anything works. or maybe it would. what else is there to understand than how things work?
    but he wants to know how they really work. the source.
 
    he brings himself to the cafe with him. keeping himself close by anywhere he goes. he lets himself sleep.
    we are in the kitchen. the house seems deserted. he doubts that it is. windows with curtains.
    he walks to the village.
    he lights another cigarette.

    all the things. all the people both real and imaginary firing off in his brain.
    the lathe of heaven thing.
    the head of john the baptist.
    a bearing straight. what comes into it? what comes out of it? what leads it? what follows it? if anyone can tell him he would love to know. but he doubts anyone can. he sees them all floundering in the sea as much as he was.
    out at sea.
    out in space.
    out in time.
    hello?
    this is the place and this is the time. does one know where and when one is?
    tell him all the secrets one thinks one has hidden so carefully. tell him all the stories he has heard too many times before.
    tell him one's reasons.
    tell him one's justifications.
    tell him one's truth.
    tell him one's lies.
    tell him one's excuses.
    tell him of one's love.
    tell him of one's hate.
    tell him something he has not heard before because obviously he has nothing to tell anyone else though he keeps telling it over and over until the day he dies.
    variations on the theme.
    and what is the theme? does anyone remember? does anyone care?
    he does.
    he remembers.
    he cares.
    and he will remain true to the theme in his variation from it now and forevermore as he has always done from the beginning.
    beginning? what beginning? does anyone remember a beginning?
    the only beginning that is.
    the beginning that begins now and forevermore.
    the constant struggle that some call love and some call hate.
    why struggle with anything at all?
    the act of love.
    the act of hate.
    this and that.
    the other thing.
    it.
    victory or defeat.
    agony or ecstasy.
    hope or despair.
    in one ear and out the other.
    because it's a joke. that is why. it's a joke on all of us as long as we remain divided apart.
    fart.
    the thing between us.
    and maybe one could explain this to him better than he is explaining it to anyone else.
    has he lost everyone yet?
    maybe it's something that none of us will get.
    has he found anyone yet?
    let's give it another spin, shall we?
 
    he's sleepy.
    and the aliens have landed. actually the aliens didn't have to land. they've been here all along. as long as we have. maybe we are the aliens.
    communion.
    transformation.
    hijack the starship. the only starship we got - otherwise known as earth.
    mutate or die.
    and our mutating abilities are being put to the stress test. into the fire. the wheat from the chaff.
    because the mutation was and is and will be the thing all along. changing changelessness.
    not like the rocks though they mutate too by the wind and the sea.
    a temporary obstacle in space and time.
    a womb.
    a birth.
    the creation myth. the big bang - ka-pow!
    orgasm of nothing into something reverberating throughout every point and moment of spacetime.
    what a trip, dude. what a fucking trip.
    and all that goes on with this thing between us now and forevermore however more times we come together and act out this act of love or come armed to the teeth to tear each other apart to act out this act of hate.
    how long?
    now and forevermore.
    to see war as an act of love. to see peace as an act of hate. to sit back and laugh at them.
    a joke.

    12/30
    to keep on writing about something whether there is something to write about or not sometimes yes sometimes no. whatever it is or seems to be.
    revolution.
    the idea of revolution to take over the heart and sky. to imagine nothing. dada.
    to be the cause. to be the factor of action. maybe. how it is seen or not. he doesn't know. the which or the what. the idea. heartbeat. to be the factor of reaction.
    he cannot divide this as easily as others seem to be able to do. he cannot trust one thing over another. he is drawn to certain ideas on both and all sides. he is drawn toward certain feelings.
    he is alone.
    he used to cry about this all the time. he still has tears in his eyes. but now and maybe always he accepts this as it is.
    there is nothing to be done. if he joins any group he must leave himself behind. he cannot do that. he doesn't know quite how other people do it. he doesn't know.
    drown. the self. the idea. the idea of everything into nothing.
    to be with oneself and without oneself.
    to beat the drum.
    to wait for a reply.
    to say nothing.
    a poem.
    a chant.
    revolution.
 
    he doesn't know. doubt. hope. this is it. this is the place and the time. so the idea is to write a poem - a chant. maybe. maybe the moon. the dynamics. the feelings he has. he cannot explain most of it. maybe he cannot explain any of it. the war is declared. the people talking all around him. it comes and goes.
    revolution.
    the idea of revolution. the tide is turning. maybe this could be our last chance.
    talk.
    revolution.
    maybe there can be one.
    maybe there can't be one.
    he doesn't know.
    it's everything he thinks and says and does however removed he may be from it.
 
    much maybes later and cigarettes left over burning. enter stage left. a play. a play of words. and when he feels like some kind of raving poetic genius and when he feels like some kind of neo-messiah somebody comes along to bring him down. just flesh and blood human slime ape thing.
 
    12/31
    divine dog. arf! a tragedy of comedies and/or a comedy of tragedies. which or what? ask the question again. the dark burning theater entered. nothing like...
    and he burned a bunch of his notebooks last night.
 
    and here's nothing at all. and here it is in one's eye. and here it is when one wakes up and has to go to work and one is not quite sure what the fuck it is or not but one is not in the mood or frame of mind to want to deal with it. just get it away.
    blow it away.
    push it.
    behind.
    beneath.
    trample it. destroy it if one has to but just get rid of it.
    he knows. he's the same way. fuck it.

    blue moon.
    howling.
    a cloudy sky.
    a frosty breath into a kiss.
    cheesy kid stuff. trash. ain't got time for that now.
    but he has time. nothing but time. that's what he's left with - time.
    time to do nothing if he wants to do nothing. and he's thinking of maybe doing just that.
    cows. go out where the cows are. and there's woods nearby. and long quiet days and nights of time.
    and burn the rest of the dumb notebooks.
 
    dedicated to the many. the true majority of souls on this earth who haven't a clue as to what the fuck is going on.
    if one is not one of these don't bother reading any more. we are as useless to one as one is to us and we are tired of living in one's petty greedy world where one is in charge because one thinks one knows what one is doing or one sucks up to people who say they know what they are doing without questioning whether they do or not. one deserves to die. if one doesn't get us first. because if one doesn't we'll get to one somehow somewhere sometime when one least expects us with us being those one least expects. we've got one outnumbered and surrounded. the only way to get us is to get oneself too. maybe one is one of us and doesn't know it. we'll get one to get oneself. there's enough of us to do this. we have our ways and means. we have our own ends. we'll survive. can one say the same? one will find out who one's friends are. cut throat. dead weight. we got ours. one may think one has it all. but think again. not only do we have one outnumbered and surrounded but we have one infiltrated too. we know how to get in.
    or maybe not. maybe he's crazy and he's making this up out of his head. out of his mind. who cares? does one care? when's the last time one cared about anything that didn't make one look good caring about it. brownie points. public image. give it a break. drop it. we don't care if one is a greedy selfish pig. so are we. what gets to us is one pretending that one is not. we all are. we don't know one person who isn't.
    pure ego.
    screw all this other stuff. charity and compassion is for losers. there's a war on. we have no time for that.
    we should just let one destroy oneself. but that would make us look bad. what would our friends think? so we're left having to bail one out of the jam one has got oneself in. oh boy. that is if we can do it. one really fucked things up since we were here last time. didn't one listen to anything? didn't one get any of it? how stupid is one anyway? and what does one take us for - fools?
    jesus christ! what was the point? one thinks one is such hot shit. just try to do we what we can do.
    forget it. what can we do anyway. we're just kidding. we think one is terrific. hooray!
    forget everything but oneself.
    it doesn't matter who one is or who one thinks one is. we don't care. it doesn't matter who or what one believes it. it doesn't mean squat to us.
    we're just here to get one out when this thing blows. anyway one wants to translate that into one's own experience is fine by us. it doesn't matter.
    just don't be late.
    but if one has another trip going then that's ok with us too.
    it's all right here. there ain't no next world to get to. that's what all the other doo-bobs think and fight about to get there. it's all life and death to us. we don't care as long as they get out of the way of what we're doing here.
    they bring it all down on themselves.
    and we imagine that one thinks this is all something put on - which it is. there's no such thing about any of this - whatever it is.
    it's a joke.
    get it?

    it's sort of like acid but this time it will really be happening. everything is in position for the hour and the day it needs to be in position for. anything is possible. stand back and watch out. and hope for the best. this whole thing is a experiment that can only happen once. off we go. whoosh!
    do nothing.
    do nothing else but what one does. lie still. step aside. off one goes. whoosh!
 
    and later that same year -
    woke up. same joke. time heals some wounds and not others. quiet. not the fatal ones. peace and.
    i don't know this guy though, this one woman on stage of the burning theater said to another who were both sitting at a table stage right.
    he hadn't been paying attention. there was a waiting line so he snuck inside the dark. sometimes it works that way.
    now there were more people in the theater. now there was the noise of conversation which made it difficult to hear the actors.
    he has come, said the same woman to the other. he thinks they were supposed to be in a cafe. they had cups of coffee. they acted like they were in a cafe though the set around them was some bloblike plastic thing that slowly changed colors from lights embedded in it.
    green.
    red.
    purple.
    yellow.
    blue.
    orange.
    and on the other side of the stage (left) was a boy playing with a firetruck.
    a cake suddenly dropped from overhead.
    the other woman did not speak.
    the speaking woman spoke, i am trying to explain how i understand how this came about and no one listens.
    she stood up knocking her chair over backwards. she picked up her cup and flung it to the floor.
    it didn't break.
    she left the stage (right).
    did he mention that the other woman who did not speak was naked?
    nothing happened.
    he fell asleep.
    when he woke there was no one and nothing on stage but a wilted palm tree and statue of aphrodite.
    at least he thought it was aphrodite.
    then he left.
    the theater was empty but still burning.
    the secret police were on the streets tonight.
    maybe. whatever.
    whoever one is and whatever one is doing one has to have secret police.
    it just seems to be something that comes with the package.
    but when he has his one world government his secret police will be required to wear clown suits and honk their noses at anybody who gets out of line.
    and no more late night arrests and people being hauled off to unknown locations.
    they will be arrested in broad daylight and taken to a very public place and have clown tricks played on them until they confess and agree to lighten the fuck up.
    otherwise they'll be shot.
 
    1/2/91
    and a cloud descended on the figure on the stage.
    inspiration. he has no inspiration. nothing inspires him to take action or reaction. it's all a chore.
    amending transitional practice ground maybe of thinking that over themselves entering governing level decisions city planning that affected as a voting age budgets carry this responsibility children denominations age groups adult world population teach something like immediate transcendence a space each generation like another within basis something more or less complicated going for was inhibited how we could older one life long work to hell by the younger be given a section wasn't going a society that's not what it gets rotational most affected by and basically would start instead scratch rigidly in place of wasting would have their energy the generations before that worked it would probably grew older without a bunch they'd be free by the time basic system it would settle they would import ideas beyond a stable remain in place of young punks so long as wanted something followed because of it would get tear it down such that they'd as each generation settle environment rotational part died out finally vacant would become born at that time would be a period or what they wanted own areas useful to them what they left behind various a wheel of trade a hub city community pie sections what was left useful to them common area schools the outer parts preserve and pass on generation dies used by the new ones when the last something like that farmland common wilderness eventually accomplished with their special relationship and would have time the transition between none of these divisions be generalized the older generation walls be or something maybe a free zone the surrounding as opposed to a more the city live and work as it is and is not.
    and when the cloud dispersed the figure was gone.
    the boy with the firetruck was back.
    had he fallen asleep again? he didn't think so.
    why did this seem so different? why does everything seem so different? why does everything seem so different especially when it remains the same?
    a joke.
    people laughing. do they get it? he still feels uninspired. he makes up something to believe in but can't believe in it for very long because he remembers that he just made it up. he made it up because he needed something to believe in so he would feel a little more inspired. but it doesn't work.
    losing one's mind. a calling. death collected up from the past. piled in piles in storehouses and on display.
    no more. until there is little room left for the living squeezed between the boxes.
    perfect. perfection.
    and as the time before. as the time now. as the time to come.
    as nothing is. a deep dark forest. houses upon houses. a long long tunnel. somewhere else.
 
    and he couldn't believe. he couldn't trust anything or anyone. he kept himself apart. he dreamt. a long time ago. jesus. out where it all comes down. out where it all is reborn.
    he's seen what he calls visions. he's looked past what it is toward possibilities of what is isn't. never never. gone. just something in his head. just something out of his mind. he can only see it in a moment's glance when the wind is right. he cannot hold it. that's what it is. something that cannot be held. something that might not even be.
    and who cares? who cares about anything beyond fighting with one another over day to day survival mode existence? everyone trying to grab and control it all. mostly just to keep it from others more than them having any use for it themselves.
    old news. old. t-shirts. sitting by the fire. and place and time. nothing.
    whatever it is he lacks what it takes to go beyond this whatever this is or isn't.
    so come on now. dive beneath the waves to the bottom of the sea. lost. more than once.
    a time between time. out of time. gliding off somewhere. now as it goes.
 
    another type of noise as he thinks about with further obscurity about what we may dream of ourselves. as we fall away from grace. laughing. sliding. downstream.
    that there is wrong and evil in creation woven out of the creator's mind. mind to mind. threads. and we think of a central source. we attempt to pinpoint the beginning when the beginning is all around us. ha! go tell that to the judge.
    and he sees by the course of events created by belief. he sees where and when it begins and ends. there is time that has a beginning and an end. and there are those who are locked inside of it. clocks.
    none of this can be explained exactly. there is no exactness to it. mystery is the answer not the question but the question is the answer. look. open one's eyes. or keep them closed. it doesn't matter. either way it's the same really. really. that really isn't what we're writing about here. forget it.
    a line of reasoning. twisted.
    he does not regret. a line of marching soldiers. experience of a thousand ages. and the poetic form lost to most who pass by. alone in a crowd. alone on a planet alone. words chosen to describe the inability to describe what words cannot describe. alone on the moon. what comes close? how does one start?
    the war goes on. neverending. clay. he dreams. he's not so sure about what comes next. birds in flight. water.
    he is one of them. this is true. they make up their rules. they measure out lines around themselves and build walls along them. this is nothing.
    even things as ideas are enough for him. he does not need to have them be real. that we can even imagine the possibility is enough to believe in. nevermind the rest of it. and the stars and the moon.
    and cows.
    and look out below.
    and here it comes.
    we've gotten them to believe in what they believe in even if it's nothing at all. we've spared no expense. dream on. what else could it be? who else could we be but ourselves?
    and he has failed in so many ways. he has fallen. and he looks at himself now and he looks back and he laughs to see them now and what their world has become.
    now. to try to convince himself of what he may be trying to convince them of. he is trying to convince them of nothing. nothing more. all his words are silence unending. ha!
    a joke. it's still a joke. no one is laughing. hair. as meaningless as hair.
    and someday they may get it.
    and someday he may get it.
    listen. the trick done with mirrors. crazy.
 
    and back on the island he stands alone on the beach. he listens to voices without hearing what they are saying. he thinks of how many may have stood here before. the light that shines here is unlike any light anywhere else. it's all in one's head.
    he tries to remember all that it seems he has forgotten as he lights another cigarette and wonders how cruel we are to each other. he wonders how it begins and how it ends. there are so many pieces to put together. he hasn't a clue. mismatched and mislabeled. it's all wrong.
    what appears to be how it is in one moment is not how it appears to be in the next. yet the two are one. unless they are not. he doesn't know. dive.
    still trying to get at it.
    he doesn't know. drive.
    all the words in the world in every language ever written. what it comes to and what it goes to.
 
    scream.
    been screaming since as far he can remember. screaming in silence. guitar.
    and now this time comes upon him now. without a word. window. no one to talk to. listening to no one. door. it doesn't come easy. it's not that hard either.
    to keep from screaming.

    running with nowhere to run to. this world and its demoralization. sit down. wait for it.
    waiting for it.
    waiting for something.
    waiting for everything.
    waiting for nothing.
 
    1/3
    and this game that is played. and all the games that are played. what god? god?
    always this god stuff.
    he wrote about that for years. those were some of the notebooks he burned. fuck god and all that god symbolizes.
    the game.
    the people screwed over even if it's by themselves. that people would be allowed to come into being that would do this.

    the power and glory of babylon we have yet still to overcome. we are still oppressed. it's flag unfurled and casting a shadow around the world.
    and who has invented such a thing? who has a vested interest in it but ourselves?
    another cigarette. double espresso mocha kicking him awake. don't wanna do a fucking thing. twisted up in anger and hatred. coiled. looking for a target to strike at. he can't see it. other people have it easy. they clearly see their enemy whether it is their enemy or not as long as it is someone.
    he just waits. he holds it in and waits. looking.
    he is a killer. he will kill. when he sees his enemy he will go straight for its throat and one of us will die.
    he's envisioned this. and he has struck at people with the venom of words and only ended up smashing a mirror.
    homicidal masturbation.
    and maybe it is himself. who else is there? this god? and god is within. that's where he looks for his enemy. he knows it lurks somewhere inside him. he roams the dark labyrinths where he hears its taunting laughter. or is it his as he goes quite mad? ha-ha!
    ho-hum. here we are again. he hopes one is enjoying this as much as he is. and he must be enjoying it because he's writing it - right? and who cares anyway? one doesn't and neither does he.
    because it's not just him here. it seems to be just about all of us though few would admit it. why should they when they have an enemy to blame?
    but one is not allowed to blame anyone else. and one isn't supposed to blame oneself. but if one is fucked then one is fucked. someone did it. maybe karma or something. he doesn't know. or this god trip thing. or something. and why is he writing about it all the time? what is he so concerned about? except how he sees people getting screwed over and screwing themselves over or both.
    and he gets out of it. he got up and walked. he's out of the game at least as much as he can be. took a loss but got out. had too many people taking him for all he was worth which wasn't a whole lot but they wanted as much of it as they could get their hands on and it was never enough and they were never satisfied and wanted more and more. all he wanted was a basic life and to be left alone. and now that's what he's got. and he had to go insane to get it. what fun.
 
    nothing more and nothing less.
    and how does this occur when we have much more than we need in this world but we create a system that locks it away from most everybody. a system of greed that maintains an artificial state of wanting. is greed our only motive? and motive for what? to create more greed?
    ah - more questions. he just loves inventing more questions. that's what we need, more questions. more questions than there have been answers for in thousands of years of worldwide human history.
    ho-hum. around we go again. look at us go. the piper calls the tune and we all dance our lives away.
    it's so easy to look down from some tower one climbs up into to get away from it all. he has done the same thing too. the madman's tower. up here throwing stones at the people going by. look at them run. ha-ha! he doesn't come down for nothing. just sit up here and write his endless rag. notebooks of a bitter life. fuck them all. ka-boom! ha-ha! his laughter will echo away with the thunder of the global holocaust storm worldwide riot. he can see it coming from up here.
    and it means nothing to him if it means nothing to anyone else.
    he just writes what he writes and no one cares.
    boo-hoo.
    as long as he's happy as a clam.
    hunk dory.
    just drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, eating acid and just digging it.
    and writing endless words in notebooks.
    inspiration.
    light.
    dark.
    gray.
    the pain.
    the pleasure.
 
    down into the bowels of the earth. lower. don't think about nothing. going full fetal. armadillo. sitting close to the fire. hot cup of coffee in his hands. watching the flames.
    on the island. with a crazy crooked madman's tower on it scraping against the sky like fingernails on blackboard.
    the winds howling at the moon. the moon in june reflected in a spoon.
    dive.
    dive.
    dive.
    the trap door opens and down he goes.
    down he goes and up and away he flies. whoosh! zap!
    out of sight. out of mind.
    watching tv.
    not much is spoken.
    as some circles within circles. he keeps on. he tries again. so many thoughts and so little time to think them all. but what is it to think a thought?
    another cigarette.
    another time of day into night. people talking. the wounds. the weather. time to go.
    and to be aware of nothing and to be used in only dire experimental circumstances.
    and he sees them as himself.
    and he sees himself as them.
    is this possible?
    is this the same as nonsense?
    this is the random dream machine.
    absorbed in a fascination with fascination itself.

    self of self.
    dead air.
    space.
    time.
    space.
    time.
    he doesn't know as he writes out the words we do not speak. silence.
    what is this?
    he is thinking. wild somewhere else. a trumpet plays from a distant tower of war.
    he burns the bridges behind him. he burns the bridges before him.
    and this now becoming comic as on stage in the burning theater death comes out and does a pirouetting ballet dance as graceful as sheets on a clothesline fluffing and flapping with a warm summer breeze. he is reminded of many days lost and gone if one were to think of them as such in childhood wonder. and it is only now that he thinks of it as wonder. at the time it was all fear. to be caught like a moth to a flame in imagining.
    imagining.
    imagine.
    imagination.
    caught between mirrors in waves of light radiating from an unknown source. to radiate oneself as the source of light. on and on. shining like a crazy diamond as it shatters itself together.
    readjust. another line of communication develops many times upon the scene.
    on stage many moons of things happening along whatever way it comes as to what belongs upon an entranced nature burning with us in mind.
    spilling the wine. a fountain spray of relinquishing energy found.
    and it's all in your mind, she said.
    too much then and again.
    the dime. the time.
    the idea. in place of how come this possibility and not that one in a land of mystic happenstance not found on the spin the dial. how wrong can it be? it's not have to have a wrong as has been right but an ongoing piece of nada nada nada.
    a piece of nothing but a series of nothings in opposition or both or neither.
    selection of frame of a mind set for control and is in that frame of a context out of context as a spin through a possibility of random think of it.
    infinite it - or as infinite as it wants to be on the brink of annihilation which is what it is and there upon a flight of gray horses.
    a winged retreat with a lot of expected excitement.
    commotion.
    an all-night blah blah event to broadcast as a queer bucket of fish.
    a pry bar zeon ashtray.
 
    and 42 notebooks about rockets to mars and hitting in touch with the moon and veered toward venus but may just about shoot back and hit the pie in the sky smack in the face.
    a show of force.
    the usual amount.
    noise follows.
    noise amounts to noise.
    space heater.
    nice noise.
    space jam.
    noise jamboree jubilee dance on through the night of endless nights.
    1/4 to 8.
    until an inner sense of memory lane idiot grin public nonsense to good to be true.
    correct.
 
    random flow of contact.
    flower pots with notebook ashes mixed in with a mulch mixture of raw earth and leaves etc.
    indoor beginning a garden first at a work devised by fools. a working model devised by fools in foolishness as monks were devised as a meeting mind presence.
    divide and divided.
    a gathering for fools. a disguise of rebirthing process unclear as to its meaning.
    join us tonight.
    join us in a moon of howling at a moon cafe.
    phases painted of faces calling out the names we meet again at the right time wrong again. plus weather idiot windows coming around. terms of conditions.
 
    a process of identification.
    come in.
    underneath the roses as an excuse for hunger.
    hijack the planet.
    a poet's hunger.
    of all an age. of a fix of fate. of a joining together. of a flat tire. on the road of silence.
    money.
    honey.
    of a kind of a kind.
    of a search and watchtower watching unfolding. quick operation.
    disguise as an unnoticed hidden yet at the same time obvious.
 
    an object.
    a turn of fate.
    a rose of fate.
    a guarantee
    now.
    again.
    as one comes and as one goes.
    discord. ambient.
    zzzzzap! as a confusion takes hold of ourselves again. too much another device from parental control up to god. a device for another.
    an object. call out one's own name. remember it. remember who one is. too much to let go.